


say tomorrow doesn't come

by rooted



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooted/pseuds/rooted
Summary: Kiyoomi, eight summers in waiting.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 20
Kudos: 44
Collections: Haikyuu Writer Jukebox Round One - Mitski





	say tomorrow doesn't come

**Author's Note:**

> after [Once More to See You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9yfLGT_ozQ) by Mitski. title taken from [The Conditional](https://poets.org/poem/conditional) by Ada Limon.

There are other boys with confident strides and graceful spikes and beads of sweat dotting their foreheads like sand on a child’s palm, but this boy keeps cleanliness inside his pocket, and Kiyoomi needs that.

Their lives intersect for the first time at a middle school volleyball tournament, Kiyoomi’s first of many to come. He makes his way to the bathroom and catches sight of boys who walk out with wet hands, dripping water from their careless fingers, leaving transparent drops that soon harden as broken white stains on the tiles, drawing his eyebrows closer together in deep, deep annoyance.

Kiyoomi elbows the bathroom door open with a huff, and meets the olive eyes of a boy with careful hands, drying and folding. The faint scent of soap rising in the humid air disappears, the harsh lights blind more than they shine. Later, he would remember this as the mythology of meeting in the making.

 _Hello_ , Kiyoomi’s inner boy voice wonders without sound, his eyes glimmer without blinking, as the boy passes him to reach for the door. _Who are you?_

 _Ushijima Wakatoshi_ , Kiyoomi learns on court. He learns too, that the boy is more godly than geometry, turning volleyballs into perfect spheres of fire in his hand. When the ball bumps away from Kiyoomi’s receiving arms and not high and above as intended, Kiyoomi finds a new match, and a new purpose.

*

Kiyoomi has never met anyone like Wakatoshi: everything he holds fills, turns powerful, and Kiyoomi has never seen his edges spill. At another tournament, Kiyoomi asks Wakatoshi about how he got so good at this, at everything. Wakatoshi answers with something that Kiyoomi has already known, has already been doing, so he presses for more. _Because I got lucky,_ Wakatoshi says. A handful of hard work and an urge to improve will always do you good, but there are things you cannot teach yourself, things you cannot give yourself, like luck.

 _Even if I get as lucky as you, you have a couple of years worth of experience that I can never catch up to_ , Kiyoomi says. _You don’t have to catch up to me, though I have no doubt that you will_. Wakatoshi offers as he turns to him. _We can always grow together, even from opposite sides of the court._

Kiyoomi blinks and it’s as if every word from Wakatoshi’s lips cleared the greatest of obstacles. Someone calls Wakatoshi’s name from far behind, notifying him that he’s needed elsewhere, sound travelling across the space like an invasive bug, contaminating the precious bubble of their moment.

 _Good luck, Kiyoomi._ Wakatoshi leaves him with that as he turns around to walk away. Something is heavy in Sakusa’s throat, but he manages to make out a solid sound. _Good luck, Wakatoshi-kun._

To be with Wakatoshi is to match his greatness, Kiyoomi resolves. If he can’t be by Wakatoshi’s side, at least he will follow close behind. Is it any wonder then, that Kiyoomi doesn’t want Wakatoshi to see stars in someone who is not him. Wakatoshi is, at once, the finish line of a race and the gun that begins it.

*

Tradition has nothing to do with sentiments, just years, thrown together by these incidents of victory and loss. Wakatoshi and Kiyoomi find each other in venue hallways, in courts, in changing rooms, making time for small talks that are never small. Out of courtesy first, out of tradition then, out of something entirely else later. Kiyoomi tells himself he does not want to learn everything there is to know about Wakatoshi, only enough to keep him in the hallways, in the boundaries of a friendly rivalry. Only enough to keep him.

In Sendai, Wakatoshi learns about Kiyoomi’s older siblings and what they do, learns about Motoya, who is just as full of sun and life as Wakatoshi’s Satori, and Kiyoomi learns about Wakatoshi’s father who lives time zones away, and his mother whom he took so much after.

In Tokyo, Wakatoshi learns about Iizuna, who pocketed cleanliness too, who was doting and real and warm, and how sometimes love simply ran through its course and there’s nothing you could do about it. _It is what it is_ , Kiyoomi shrugs. Kiyoomi also learns about Shirabu and how absence did not make the heart grow fonder, about one sticky, sun-browned California summer with Iwaizumi and how it did not have enough time to bloom as love, but it meant something to Wakatoshi still.

The conclusion reached is that with love, knowing is instant, finding the right key is easy, the difficult part is figuring out whether the room you unlock is the room you would want to stay in. Kiyoomi wonders how he could fit into the future of Wakatoshi. If there will be a room shaped like him in it. Kiyoomi does not know where tomorrows will take him, but at least, at least, this feeling will propel him forward.

*

Seasons spin. The world keeps turning. Somewhere in between, Kiyoomi has been stuck loving the same finite set of things: cleanliness, finish lines, volleyball, Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Kiyoomi’s love of volleyball brings him here and now, to a late lunch at the Adlers’ hotel in the heart of Sendai the day before their battle with MSBY Jackals. Soon someone will spill their green tea and everyone will laugh and no one will clean it up. Soon someone will start a story that has been told a dozen times before, and someone else will remember it halfway and cut the story short. Soon Wakatoshi, seated right in front of him, will try to catch his eyes and ask if he wants to leave the scene.

There it is.

Wakatoshi takes the returned gaze as a cue to start their dance, their ritual of coming to get-togethers and sneaking away when everyone else is sated and distracted by each other.

 _Is there anything you want to do for the rest of the day?_ Wakatoshi asks. _Let’s get out of here_ , Kiyoomi replies. _I am bored and I want to let loose for you, but not around this crowd of men with no abandon,_ Kiyoomi thinks, and keeps it in. Wakatoshi leads the way, suggesting the rooftop for its quietness. Kiyoomi goes with it, just wants to be alone with him.

When the elevator opens up to the rooftop, they are showered with the faint light from a ceiling of messy clouds. Kiyoomi glances sideways and catches the sun setting on Wakatoshi’s face, purple-orange refracted in olive pools. Wintry wind slips through his hair and helps settle it into place, like touched by god themself. Is it any wonder, then.

 _After you,_ Wakatoshi stands still, and Kiyoomi steps out of the elevator and into the nearest corner facing west. He crosses his hands in front of his chest, decidedly not touching the parapet. The city below them slowly comes to life, sporadic mellow and beaming lights emanating from its most crowded points, luminous under the fog of November. Miyagi is not familiar to him, but he knows it is home to Wakatoshi. Some questions intrude Kiyoomi’s headspace: _What does home mean to you? Is there any chance I can be a part of it? Do you miss this city, its low lights and slowness? Can I be your home so you can miss me too, because you are missing me, but not in the way I want t—_

Wakatoshi calls his name with a catch at the end of it, as if trying to say something difficult, and stops the whirring of Kiyoomi’s brain. Kiyoomi takes a half-turn to face him, and watches Wakatoshi clasp his hands together above the wall that pillars between them and deathly gravity. _There’s something I have been meaning to tell you,_ he speaks softly. _What is it_ , Kiyoomi asks, guessing it’s something about tomorrow’s match, something about luck and not dropping it.

Wakatoshi inhales and exhales, and locks Kiyoomi’s gaze before speaking of how Kiyoomi is the only person who comes to him for nothing, and how it means everything. He figured out that the full-blooded rush he always felt during their matches did not stem from a desire for a rivalry, or a victory. Somewhere along the court lines, there was love and he fell in it.

As Wakatoshi’s last syllable melds with the air, Kiyoomi’s heart beats stronger than ever, clears everything around him. Where it used to be city now there’s only sky of his heart, unabridged and infinite.

Kiyoomi thought it was infinite too, this chasing. An unmanageable gap in the skyline. It feels like it should take more than this for Wakatoshi to love him. He does not just wake up and play volleyball and be loved. It feels like more. More effort, more than himself. It is not that simple. It should not be.

It is.

Kiyoomi breaks the floating silence by raising a hand, outstretched to feel for blood under Wakatoshi’s cheek. He waits for permission, and when Wakatoshi turns to him with his whole body, Kiyoomi closes in and kisses him, their joining breath is all thickness, all liquid. Wakatoshi receives him whole and keen like promise, he tastes like fortune too, the best of it. Kiyoomi’s eyes are closed but he sees glimmering colors, heart growing like roses under his love’s light.

Kiyoomi, eight summers in waiting. Wakatoshi is here now before him, proving that he has been patient. He has been so, so patient. He thinks of the love he is going to deserve soon. Thinking of how he’s going to swallow it whole, and let it swallow him whole. Let it salve him. Beneath them, the world is spinning, their feet forever fallen and falling, unrising. When they pull apart, the city comes back.

Though he surrenders to Wakatoshi before the game begins, Kiyoomi has already won.

*

After the game, Wakatoshi finds Kiyoomi alone in the bathroom, in the middle of washing his hands. He tells Kiyoomi that he’s willing to spend his last night in Tokyo, however Kiyoomi wants—the victor’s prize. Kiyoomi does not have to think twice, and gives Wakatoshi his spare hotel room card. _Sometimes some losses taste sweeter than others,_ Wakatoshi murmurs against Kiyoomi’s nape as he pockets the card. Later that night, all the doors inside Kiyoomi open. There is so much more of him he tries not to sleep, stretching time to just be in this room, with this man, their bodies folding in silence as they move into the future.

*

He will never leave them up to fate, Kiyoomi thinks, as he stares at the screen that shows the contract that will place Wakatoshi 8,597 kilometres away from the room they’re in. It feels like a sledgehammer in his gut how badly he wants Wakatoshi to stay. How it suddenly feels like a matter of life and death, having him close, every inch of him. He wants to take out the hammer and break down the mechanics of Wakatoshi’s devotion, to see if it will withstand separation, even if temporary.

“Are you going to love me there?” A question of possible futures, possible maps. Kiyoomi’s voice is so honest in its gloom. “I don’t know how not to.” Wakatoshi puts down his laptop, and embraces Kiyoomi. “I have loved you for a long time.”

Kiyoomi could stand a stretch of nets between them, but he’s not sure about entire oceans and continents. No full-blooded rush this time, just the violent sombre of unwanted distance. There are too many kinds of close for him to be that far. But Kiyoomi is not going to ask him to stay. He does not want to be an anchor, just a lighthouse, a home.

“I know you want me to stay here, and so do I, but this is a chance I have to take. Just like _you_ were a chance I had to take.”

“I know.” Kiyoomi smiles, accepting and resolved. “I know.” More to himself now. “Call me every day when you’re there. I will wake up earlier or sleep later so you can always catch me.”

“We can figure that out later, Kiyoomi. I am still here.” Wakatoshi presses a kiss long and good into Kiyoomi’s temple, whose forehead has fallen atop Wakatoshi’s shoulder, and whispers, “I am still yours.”

“You are.” Kiyoomi breathes him in, squeezes him closer. “You are.”

 _Your heart is yours but please do not take it away from me,_ Kiyoomi wishes.

*

Instead of hello _,_ Wakatoshi greets Kiyoomi with, “Do you ever want to get married?”

_Only to you, yes._

Kiyoomi does not freeze, takes the question like one of breakfast choice or how he copes with sweet summer sunshine. Not that it does not delight him, but he figured out from day one that they would end up here sooner or later, like river always leads to the sea.

“You are not proposing to me through a phone call, Toshi.”

“It was merely a question, not a proposal. I want to make sure whether it is in your future plans at all.” Clear and determined and true, as Wakatoshi is.

“Hmm.” Kiyoomi nods to himself. “What if it is?”

“Then I will start planning for a proper proposal. In person, of course.”

Kiyoomi chuckles, the one reserved for only Wakatoshi. “And if it’s not?”

“Then I will continue being with you as long as you let me, rings or no rings.” Wakatoshi’s words cross the lands and ocean, straight into the space between Kiyoomi’s rib cage. Kiyoomi misses him so much, and his complete and uncomplicated love.

“I would like the rings, please.” _The flowers and the vows and our families too,_ he silently adds. _Carnations and gerberas, maybe._

*

The cheers coming from the vast red-white blur around the stadium is the match that lights Kiyoomi’s wick. Kiyoomi is standing here because he is good, great, one of the best. Next to him is red-adorned Wakatoshi, his number one, his beating heart. Wakatoshi is next to him because Kiyoomi is fortunate, blessed by the gods, the luckiest. If Kiyoomi wanted to hide Wakatoshi from the world then, he only wants to conquer it with him now, with everybody watching them, their every move.

Argentina blue crowds the other side of the line, just as convinced of their courage and greatness. “Are you nervous?” Wakatoshi takes Kiyoomi’s hand and brings it to his lips, kisses the back of it. Light, light touch, unlike the burning determination in his eyes. “No. You’re on my side this time,” Kiyoomi answers, the same gleam in his eyes. Wakatoshi smiles and they march forward. The jittery chatter around them dissolves as the band starts playing, as the supportive rumble grows deeper. The sun of the future is hopeful over the earth they stand on.

*

There are other men with victories tucked into their smiles and golden rings of luck adorning their heads like halo, but Wakatoshi is apologies best written, proposal on one knee, fire with old letters for kindling, and Kiyoomi needs that.

Kiyoomi and Wakatoshi walk towards the far end of the bus. They take the most secluded seats, always reserved for them only, an understanding gesture from the rest of the National team. Outside, Paris’ summer sun is sinking behind a row of buildings, crowning their tops with fiery halation. They have just lost their winning streak, and though disappointment hangs in the air, there’s nothing left to be done now except head home.

 _What if there’s no more games our bodies can carry over_ , Kiyoomi asks, limp and worn, staring outside the window. What happens after they have seen it all through, when their dreams have to change shape so their hands can hold them still?

 _I think you and I will be okay_. Wakatoshi covers Kiyoomi’s hand with his own like shadow, intertwining them in a single breath. _I will keep getting older with you wherever you want._ He knows that Wakatoshi and him will carry on: they have no end, every finish line a new beginning. They will have every kind of alone, just the two of them. The crowded corridor and empty changing room kind, the sitting at the back seats of the bus kind, the folding into each other kind, the rest of all Kiyoomi’s days, all of his losses and victories, his littles and his forevers, getting lost and getting home together.

Kiyoomi turns to find Wakatoshi’s eyes, and asks: _Is that a promise?_ Wakatoshi never let go of Kiyoomi’s hand, and is now squeezing it a little harder, that gently strong hand of his. _It’s a guarantee,_ he assures. Kiyoomi drops his head and smiles into Wakatoshi’s shoulder, safe in the knowledge that they will never stop changing. That they will never stop, come every tomorrow.

*

_‘Say you’d still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky.’_

Ada Limon

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! kudos and comments are appreciated, i'd love to hear your thoughts :)  
> [twt](https://twitter.com/higherbeams)


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